


Dear Diary

by RunawayWhispers



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Awkward Sexual Situations, Crying, Crying Katsuki Yuuri, Diary/Journal, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, POV Victor Nikiforov, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 16:52:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11787375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunawayWhispers/pseuds/RunawayWhispers
Summary: Dear Diary.Why does he do this to me?He knows I could never be with him, despite how well our bodies work in synchronisation when we meet each other in secret. He knows the lust I possess is simply that; lust. The desire I feel for his needy flesh is pure sexual infatuation and nothing else.Yet, every night, he calls for me.





	Dear Diary

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. A little note beforehand; this is a fic which changes tense as it goes. I've styled it as though it is an actual thought process, which means I haven't beta'd it.

Dear Diary.

 

Why does he do this to me?

He knows I could never be with him, despite how well our bodies work in synchronisation when we meet each other in secret. He knows the lust I possess is simply that; lust. The desire I feel for his needy flesh is pure sexual infatuation and nothing else.

 

Yet, every night, he calls for me.

 

It’s the same routine every time. 11:40 at night, after a half an hour bike ride to my apartment.

He knocks three times.

I ignore him for ten mintues.

He knocks twice more.

I ignore him. He leaves.

 

Except for when I don’t.

I answered his call, avoiding his desperate eyes and shutting the door once he’s inside.

 

 

It happened tonight. I know it shouldn’t have, but I haven’t been with anyone in three weeks in fear of hurting him.

 

Sometimes I feel as though sleeping with him is a bigger, harsher knife to his back than moving on is.

It gives him the small flicker of hope in his eye, that twinkle which grows when he’s in my bed, becoming nothing more than a hole for me to satisfy my needs for.

 

He called tonight. Something was different. He was crying tonight. He begged me to answer. He begged me to give him a chance. I have already given him a chance. At least twice a week for six months.

 

I can’t help myself. Am I the villain? Am I the monster, because I can’t feel for him the same way I do.

 

 

He’s ugly when he cries. His eyes get red and puffy, and he always has snot dripping from his nose. It’s disgusting really. It repulses me. But sometimes, I wonder if the reason I let him in is because I prefer his body when he’s broken and hurt.  

 

He wonders about it to.

 

He called tonight, and I let him in.

He did not wait.

 

The feeling of his flesh against mine ignites me. It’s as though I am a matchstick and he is the flame. Naked and flaring, ready to bring me to life. The only problem is, once I have my flame, he is useless to me. His body is charred and nothing more than an echo of one true purpose. He is there to fulfil my sexual desires, and then he is thrown away.

Why does he do it to himself. Does he burn himself to worthlessness because it is a habit, and I am using him for my own selfish nature, or is it because he is conscious of his purpose, and accepts his fate.

When he pulls my body close I stifle my tears. Not because I am sad. They are tears of pity. He will not allow another person to touch him like he allows me. He will never allow another lover to let him feel the way I make him feel.

And he knows it.

 

He will be forever imprinted with the feeling of my fingertips on his biceps, trailing their way down to his ass.

 

He takes it as an action of intimacy. It is not. I do not kiss him. I do not look into his eye.

He begged me to.

I do not. He accepts.

We do not face each other. I don’t want to look at his tears while he wants to gaze at a man who will never respect him as a person.

 

He dropped to his knees. He pulls at my pyjamas, trying to get his eager mouth on the very dick that abuses him routinely.

 

I pull away.

I don’t want to risk looking him in the eye by mistake. He knew he’d been caught out. He picked himself up, wiping his tears as he turned around. He already knew where he belonged and how. It doesn’t take him long.

I followed him shortly, removing my bottoms. I don’t want him to take of my clothes. He’ll get the wrong idea.

I looked in the draw.

 

There is no lube.

“There is no lube”

He knows.

“I know.”

I join him on the bed, and spread him apart. How is it, that such a disgusting person can be the most sexually pleasing to look at?

 

Matchstick to the flame.

 

He is tight. It is difficult without lube. I don’t care. Neither does he.

 

He cries at the pain. I grunt at the pleasure.

 

I thrust quicker, placing my foot on his face. Sometimes he likes turn his face to the side and look at me. I don’t like that. I don’t let him.

 

He clenches around me and I pant. He sniffles. I feel his body moving for more, begging me to touch him. I ignored his pleading.

 

My dick tightens, the sound of his whimpering pushing me towards release.

 

I come, grasping his hips and pressing them into the faded patches from weeks ago.

I pulled out. He tugged himself to pleasure. I allow him to come, it was the least I could do for such a pathetic person.

 

He finishes, and flops.

Matchstick burnt to ashes.

 

 

He begs to stay the night.

 

No, I say.

 

Please. He begs. His eyes don’t meet mine because he is ashamed. He is right to be.

 

Matchstick burnt to ashes.

 

I grab him by his arm and pull him off my bed. He is worthless now. My flame is satisfied. I grab his neatly folded clothes from the chair and drag him to my door. He cries harder, he fights against my grip.

 

I throw him through my door with his clothes. I can feel the scrape of the concrete against his knees but I tell myself not to care. He had his chance to leave.

 

“This is the last time Yuri.” I tell him.  I haven’t called him by his name in five months.

When I looked into his eyes, the glimmer of hope had disappeared. They were dead.

 

Matchstick burnt to ashes.

 

This was the last time.

And he knew.


End file.
